Part 27 (1/2)

”See,” breathed Evelina, ”the shadow of the cypress is long.”

”Aye,” answered Piper Tom, ”the shadow of the cypress is long and the rose blooms but once a year. 'T is the way of the world.”

He loosened his flute from the cord by which it was slung over his shoulder. ”I was going to the woods,” he said, ”but at the last, I could not, for the little lad always fared with me when I went out to play. He would sit quite still when I made the music, so still that he never frightened even the birds. The birds came, too.

”'T is a way I've had for long,” he continued. ”I never could be learning the printed music, so I made music of my own. So many laughed at it, not hearing any tune, that I've always played by myself. 'T was my own soul breathing into it--perhaps I'm not to blame that it never made a tune.

”Sometimes I'm thinking that there may be tunes and tunes. I was once in a place where there were many instruments, all playing at once, and there was nothing came from it that one could call a tune. But 't was great and beautiful beyond any words of mine to tell you, and the master of them all, standing up in front, knew just when each must play.

”Most, of course, I watched the one who played the flute and listened to the voice of it. 'T is strange how, if you listen, you can pick out one instrument from all the rest. I saw that sometimes he did not play at all, and yet the music went on. Sometimes, again, he was privileged to play just a note or two--not at all like a tune.

”'T was just his part, and, by itself, it would have sounded queer. I might have laughed at it myself if I did not know, and was listening for a tune. But the master of them all was pleased, because the man with the flute made his few notes to sing rightly when they should sing and because he kept still when there was no need of his instrument.

”So I'm thinking,” concluded the Piper, humbly, ”that these few notes of mine may belong to something I cannot hear, and that the Master himself leads me, when 't is time to play.”

He put the instrument to his lips and began to play softly. The low, sweet notes were, as he said, no evident part of a tune, yet they were not without a deep and tender appeal.

Evelina listened, her head still bowed. It did not sound like the pipes o' Pan, but rather like some fragment of a mysterious, heart-breaking melody. Faint, far echoes rang back from the surrounding hills, as though in a distant forest cathedral another Piper sat enthroned.

The sound of singing waters murmured through the night as the Piper's flute breathed of stream and sea. There was the rush of a Summer wind through swaying branches, the tinkle of raindrops, the deep notes of rising storm. Moonlight s.h.i.+mmered through it, birds sang in green silences, and there was scent of birch and pine.

Then swiftly the music changed. Through the utter sadness of it came also a hint of peace, as though one had planted a garden of roses and instead there had come up herbs and balm. In the pa.s.sionate pain, there was also uplifting--a flight on broken wings. Above and beyond all there was a haunting question, to which the answer seemed lost.

At length the Piper laid down his flute. ”You do not laugh,” he said, ”and yet I'm thinking you may not care for music that has no tune.”

”I do care,” returned Evelina.

”I remember,” he answered, slowly. ”It was the day in the woods, when I called you and you came.”

”I was hurt,” she said. ”I had been terribly hurt, only that morning,”

”Yes, many have come to me so. Often when I have played in the woods the music that has no tune, some one who was very sad has come to me.

I saw you that day from far and I felt you were sad, so I called you.

I called you,” he repeated, lingering on the words, ”and you came.”

”I do not so much care for the printed music,” he went on, after an interval, ”unless it might be the great, beautiful music which takes so many to play. I have often thought of it and wondered what might happen if the players were not willing to follow the master--if one should play a tune where no tune was written, and he who has the violin should insist on playing the flute.

”I would not want the violin, for I think the flute is best of all. It is made from the trees on the mountains and the silver hidden within, and so is best fitted for the message of the mountains--the great, high music.

”I'm thinking that the life we live is not unlike the players. We have each our own instrument, but we are not content to follow as the Master leads. We do not like the low, long notes that mean sadness; we will not take what is meant for us, but insist on the dancing tunes and the light music of pleasure. It is this that makes the discord and all the confusion. The Master knows his meaning and could we each play our part well, at the right time, there would be nothing wrong in all the world.”

Miss Evelina sighed, deeply, and the Piper put his hand on hers.

”I'm not meaning to reproach you,” he said, kindly, ”though, truly, I do think you have played wrong. In any music I have heard, there has never been any one instrument that has played all the time and sadly.

When there is sadness, there is always rest, and you have had no rest.”

”No,” said Evelina, her voice breaking, ”I have had no rest--G.o.d knows that!”

”Then do you not see,” asked the Piper very gently, ”that you cannot help but make the music wrong? The Master gives you one deep note to play, and you hold it, always the same note, till the music is at an end.

”'T is something wrong, I'm thinking, that has made you hold it so.